


The Time for Home

by Ireliss



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Snow and Ice, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21719110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: Sci-fi AU. The relationship between diplomat Charles Xavier and engineer-turned-vigilante Erik Lehnsherr is a tumultuous one. However, once a year, they enjoy a week of (relative) peace and quiet with only each other for company. This year sees them on the planet Didyma in the depths of winter.(AKA: domestic winter fluff! In space!)
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 21
Collections: Secret Mutant Exchange 2019





	The Time for Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fullmetalcarer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fullmetalcarer/gifts).



> This was written for Fullmetalcarer in the Secret Mutant Exchange 2019 who wanted something with snow and ice! I've been playing way too many space shooters lately so I was in the mood for some sci-fi and SPACE. Some inspiration was lifted from the fic [He Dances the World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11592882/chapters/26056170) for Charles' cultural background, although both Charles and Erik are human here, just from different planets with vastly different cultures. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to flightinflame for your thoughts and swift beta.

The glass plains of Didyma are famous for their beauty. Technically a prairie, the glass plains are unique in that each blade of grass is translucent. Each dawn, they reflect the gentle rose and lavender blue hues of the rising sun. Midday sees the grasslands a pure, perfect blue, tranquil as the surface of a lake.

It’s coming on dusk when Charles arrives at the little house he and Erik had rented for the week. The glass plains are the same colour as the sky: muted cerulean, tinged with hints of gold and umber from the last rays of the setting sun. Snow is beginning to fall, tiny flakes melting against Charles’ hair and dusting the ground silver-blue. The beauty of the scene tugs at Charles’ heart; it’s the sort of scene that demands to be captured in photographs and holovids, the sort of scene that makes him long to dance the _teskara_ dances of his people, using his whole being to give thanks to the beauty of nature.

He can’t, of course. Not in the way he could dance in his youth. But it’s an old wound, the sort that brings only a hint of bittersweet regret. Charles puts it out of his mind, guiding his hoverchair in a meandering course around the glass plains, watching as cerulean darkens to indigo, snow gleaming against the grass like a scattering of stars against the night sky.

He’s expecting Erik to arrive at any moment, but what he gets instead is the melodious chirp of his datapad, ringing with the personalised tone he had assigned for all of Erik’s messages. Charles’ heart sinks. Sure enough, the message is a disheartening one: _Will be a day late, possibly more. I miss you._

Between Charles’ responsibilities as the diplomat of his nation – sometimes even representing his entire race – and Erik’s rather… _unpredictable_ lifestyle, the two of them have precious little time to spend together. These annual getaways are the only uninterrupted stretch of time they have, and Charles is always disappointed when their time is cut short. Still, as he re-reads Erik’s message, Charles’ mouth twitches in a fond smile. _I miss you._ Erik has always struggled to put words of affection into text – Charles knows even that short message must have taken Erik scores of minutes to write, delete, then re-write again.

 _I miss you too, darling,_ Charles writes back, using the earnest and forthright affection that he knows from experience will bring an absolutely _delightful_ curl of warmth to Erik’s mind. _It is beautiful here, but it’s never the same without you._

Charles is not usually one for photographs – a telepath’s eidetic memory and years of being dogged by nosy journalists had seen to that – but he makes an exception now, quickly snapping a picture of the last hints of dusk and sending it along with his message.

He’s heading back to their rented home when his datapad chimes with Erik’s reply. It is a snapshot of the Coballis Nebula, billowing with clouds of deep blue limned with white, a pattern like that of mist and falling snow. It is dated two Standard weeks ago – of course, Erik would never reveal his current location over the Net. _Saw this earlier and thought of you,_ is the enclosed message, and Charles can’t help the warm smile that spreads across his face.

Their rented house is quiet without Erik there, and for lack of anything else to do, Charles finds himself turning to his work again. He’s careful to avoid the more fraught topics – this is meant to be a vacation, after all – and loses himself in trade deals and newly-drafted legislation, treaty agreements and research papers…

The next time he looks at the clock, far too much time had passed already. Charles rubs at his eyes and smiles as he gets ready for bed, envisioning Erik’s scolding voice hurrying him along. He ends the night with a variant of the _tesnighra,_ meant to relax the body before sleep and give thanks for the day. The sinuous stretch of his back and the weave of his arms and wrists through the motions of the _tesnighra_ are a comforting ritual, and as an afterthought Charles introduces a few patterns from the _kahaera_ , a simple dance to bless the family with good health and safety. His thoughts still full of Erik, Charles climbs into their bed (it’s not quite warm enough without Erik there) and falls asleep.

He wakes the next morning to the feeling of a familiar consciousness brushing against his, a whisper of _hello, missed you, sorry I was held up._

_Erik!_

Their mental greeting is a warm one, more impression than words. Erik is due to arrive at their doorstep in twenty minutes ( _immigration,_ Erik grumps) and Charles speeds through his morning routine, starting with a particularly vigorous performance of the _tesdawra_ to get his circulation flowing and ending with a rapid-fire series of instructions to the various household appliances.

By the time Erik steps through the doorway, shaking off white slush from his clothes and stamping his feet, Charles (well, the kitchen appliance) is ready with breakfast and coffee. Erik takes it with a soft word of thanks and a quick peck on Charles’ lips.

It’s always this way at first: a bit of hesitation, a bit of nerves, any gestures of affection small and measured as the two of them learn to reorient their rhythms around each other once more. Charles doesn’t mind; they’ll find their pace soon enough, and in the meantime he’s happy to simply watch Erik. He has more lines on his face and more silver in his hair, but on the whole, Erik looks content. It’s a far cry from those first, terrible years when Erik had been gaunt and grim every time they had met, burning up from the inside out with the force of his own vengeful fury.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when Erik makes a pleased noise. “This is nice,” Erik says, lifting his cup of coffee. “From Calliopeia?”

“Of course. Your favourite.”

“You remembered.”

It’s an old exchange between them. Charles’ eyes crinkle. “Hard not to, when your tastes never change.” He guides his chair closer and takes Erik’s free hand, twining their wrists and fingers against each other into their personalised version of the _elcomrai_ of welcome and reunion. With the familiarity of the gesture, some of the frost between them cracks and thaws, and when Charles leans in for another kiss, it goes longer and deeper this time.

They have breakfast together. Erik teases him about the grey streak he had developed in his hair this past year, and Charles haughtily retorts that he can read Erik’s mind, in case he had forgotten, so he _knows_ Erik likes the stubborn streak of grey. The conversation then wanders to food – Didyman cuisine is a bit rich for Erik, while Charles thinks it could do with a bit more seasoning – then the state of Charles’ wardrobe – “Are you sure you packed enough warm clothes?”, “Stop fussing, Erik, you’re worse than Hank sometimes” – and finally the weather, which they both agree is wonderful, and they really should go out and enjoy it before it gets too late in the day.

It’s snowing outside, delicate white flakes that melt against Charles’ lashes and cheeks. Under the mid-morning sky, the glass plains sparkle crystalline blue, some of the blades edged with frost to create glittering prisms of colour. Charles rubs his mitten-encased hands together and blows on them, breath frosting the air in a hoary cloud, then tugs his woollen hat lower down on his ears. Beside him, Erik is much more at home, boots crunching against the snow and the gravelled walkway.

“You look quite cosy. Have you spent much time in colder climes recently?” Charles asks. He feels safer talking out here with only the snow for company; he does not entirely trust their rented house. Too many places have eyes and ears hidden in the walls, and Erik is a wanted criminal in at least four different star systems – and a folk hero in another six.

Erik’s brows knit together, a sure sign that he’s about to bring up something unpleasant but is going to go ahead with it anyway. “I spent most of the last few weeks on Iskielos.”

“…Ah.”

Erik doesn’t have to say anything more. Iskielos is one of those planets which are cold and wintry all year around, very picturesque. The entire planet is designated a tourist resort, and it’s famous for the quality of its dancers: Charles people, the Telefilin. Many of whom are not there willingly.

It was a fate Charles narrowly avoided during all that unpleasantness with Shaw. It’s something Erik still feels responsible for. Charles drums his fingers against the controls of his chair.

“Well,” he says, trying for levity, “you didn’t cause too much damage, I hope? It would be a shame if we had to cut this trip short because you have a squadron of bounty hunters on your trail.”

Erik scoffs. “You should know me better than that. It’s all taken care of. _”_ _I wouldn’t put you in danger,_ his thoughts say.

“I know you well enough to know you take too many risks,” Charles retorts.

“Someone has to.” It’s an old argument between them – Erik thinks Charles isn’t doing enough for his own people, Charles is torn between publicly commending Erik for his services to the Telefilin and all other races, and condemning the engineer-turned-vigilante for the bloody destruction he leaves in his wake.

 _Politics._ Sometimes Charles would like nothing better than to join Erik in the field. But _someone_ needs to be a voice for the Telefilin on the galactic stage.

Charles blinks as Erik’s gloved hand suddenly settles on top of his own.

“Working late again, Charles?” There’s a soft look in Erik’s eyes; it seems he isn’t interested in having one of their ideological debates two hours into their reunion. “You have dark circles. Here, under your eyes.”

“It brings out their colour,” Charles says wryly, and Erik chuckles.

“You hardly need help with that.” Erik leans further in for a kiss and Charles obliges gladly. Their mouths are cold, and the tip of Erik’s nose absolutely _freezing_ when it brushes against Charles’, but it’s lovely all the same.

They spend another hour out in the field together. The air is cold and delightfully crisp against Charles’ face, their breath mingling together in white clouds as Erik fills him in on news around the galaxy and Charles shares choice pieces of gossip from the senate and possible leads for Erik to investigate. The snow never stops falling. Gradually, the powdery flakes grow heavier. The wind picks up, and the snow begins to come down in flurries, blanketing the world in white. Charles is fine at first; his chair comes with an in-built canopy to keep off the worst of the snowfall, but the temperature is dropping steadily and Erik’s clothes are beginning to soak through with snow. Without having to speak a word, they unanimously decide to turn back.

Back inside their temporary home, they fall into a comfortable silence. Erik sets a pot of tea to brew, watching Charles with rapt attention as Charles moves fluidly through the _anunra_ of midday. It’s one of the dances Charles doesn’t often bother with, but today, with Erik’s eyes on him, Charles takes his time going through languid, rippling motions, eyes flashing with mischief as he catches Erik’s eyes and licks his lips.

_Come here._

This is their vacation, after all. It’s _exactly_ the time to indulge in a spot of midday lovemaking. The next hour blurs past in a lazy sprawl of limbs, Erik gently mouthing kisses against his neck. Charles reflects that he was correct last night; the bed is the perfect temperature when Erik is in it with him. Afterwards, snug under the blankets, Charles strokes at a small patch of raised white scar tissue against Erik’s thigh.

“This is new,” he says softly.

“Shrapnel.”

A flustered sensation twinges in Erik’s mind. Charles hones in on it immediately.

“ _Metal_ shrapnel?”

Erik scowls.

Shaking his head, Charles takes it as a yes. “How?”

“I was distracted,” Erik grumbles. The memory is at the forefront of Erik’s mind, strong enough that Charles scoops it up without a modicum of effort.

“You were drunk!” He exclaims, accusingly. “And you – you started a _bar fight_ because someone insulted me?” He smacks Erik on the arm. “I was worried about you!”

Erik’s lips curl in a toothsome grin. “I’m still in one piece, am I?”

“And I’d very much like it if you stayed that way.” Charles shakes his head again, but it’s impossible to stay annoyed when Erik pushes a lock of dark hair from Charles’ face and leans in to kiss his forehead chastely. Charles sighs and curls an arm around Erik’s shoulder, pulling him close. One thing leads to another, and by the time they stumble out of bed again, Erik is grousing about how he should have started on dinner preparations half an hour ago.

“That’s what the kitchen appliances are for,” Charles says, just to see the way Erik’s eyes glint in mock indignation.

“Why, Charles, if you weren’t interested in my cooking, you only had to say.”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” Charles shoots back, the banter between them coming as easy as breathing. “You should know how much I adore your cooking.”

It’s something of a ritual between them by now: whenever they have one of their getaways, Erik is the one to do all the cooking for them, trying out recipes he had come across during his travel but lacked the time or tools or ingredients to make. It’s something of a rarity; people are generally too busy to find the time to cook, especially when a single press of a button is enough to command the kitchen appliances to serve up a hot, freshly-prepared meal within the matter of minutes. Still, Charles likes this hobby of Erik’s. Partly because he gets a delicious meal out of it, yes, but also because he loves the way Erik’s mind lights up with focus as his power runs through the knives and pots and pans.

Erik always seems to have a preference for recipes with a lot of chopping and dicing, and today is no different. Charles settles to watch as multiple knives move under the influence of Erik’s powers, one of them peeling the skin off several dark purple vegetables, the others busy chopping up some _aniyons._

“Your fine control is impressive as always, my friend.”

“Flattery again, Charles?”

“It’s the truth.”

Gradually, the house fills with warmth from the stovetop and the mouth-watering smells of Erik’s cooking. Outside the cosy cheer of their house, the snow is falling more thickly than ever. They’ll wake up to a world of white tomorrow, Charles thinks.

Dinner – “This is excellent, Erik, thank you,” – passes by companionably, and afterwards Charles sets up the board for their customary game of chess while Erik pours them both glasses of old-world style scotch. They make it to three games before Charles decides to call it a night. Full and sleepy and content, they clamber into bed together, and the last thing Charles remembers is falling asleep to the feeling of Erik’s chest rising and falling in time with his breaths.

It’s fully dark when Charles wakes up, shivering. He burrows closer to Erik and gropes around blearily, wondering if some of the blankets had fallen to the floor, but no, he can still feel their weight on top of him.

Erik wakes, his mind instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s cold. I think the heat might be off.”

“I’ll check.” Erik sits up, reaching out with his abilities, then shakes his head. “Power’s out.”

“That’s not good.” Charles pushes himself into a sitting position, shivering as the frigid air of the room hits him. It’s cold enough that he can see the puff of his breath. Quickly, he grabs the datapad from the nightstand and hides under the blankets again, and Erik obligingly spoons against his back, surrounding him with warmth.

The glare of the datapad is blinding after the darkness of the room. Charles squints against the light, rapidly checking the news. “Ice storm,” he reports after a second. “Looks like a few power lines are down.”

Erik props his chin against Charles’ shoulder to see the report for himself, ignoring the way Charles playfully tries to shrug him off. “Repairs expected to be completed before the morning,” he reads. “In the meantime, residents are urged to stay indoors and keep warm.”

“They make it sound so easy,” Charles grumbles. His teeth are beginning to chatter.

Concern creeps into Erik’s mind. “You all right?”

“Fine. If it’s only for a few hours, it’s hardly going to be life-threatening.” Just miserable. Charles has never tolerated cold very well, and it’s only gotten worse after he lost the use of his legs. Really, the worst part of it all is the anxiety that the outage will last for much longer than expected. “We’ll layer up, wear some warmer clothes, stay under the blankets as much as possible until the morning.”

“We could move to the living room. I saw a fireplace.”

“That’s a bit of an overkill, isn’t it?”

“Better than listening to you complain all night about the cold,” Erik retorts, and Charles swats him lightly against the shoulder.

They really should be saving the firewood for emergencies, but Charles has never been very good at saying no to Erik when it comes to this sort of domestic whimsy. He has to admit (privately, of course), there’s something very appealing about the thought of curling up in front of the fireplace with Erik.

(Besides, he _is_ terribly cold.)

Erik probably senses Charles’ surrender, because he drops a kiss against Charles’ cheek and rolls out of bed. “Go layer up, I’ll get the fire ready.”

Getting up seems like more hassle than it’s worth, but with Erik gone, the bed is cold and lonely. Groaning, Charles extricates himself from the nest of blankets and transfers into his hoverchair. To save power, he switches it to manual-handling mode and the hoverchair settles lower to the ground, wheels extending. Charles wheels himself to the closet, grimacing at the coldness of the handrims against his bare palms. Pulling on a few extra layers, Charles tops it all off with a jacket, gloves, and a pair of socks Erik had knitted for him years ago. A few of the stitches are crooked, but they’re still the thickest and warmest pair of socks he owns. Then, for good measure, he brings the blankets with him.

Erik already has the fire going when Charles makes it to the living room. Charles breathes in the scent of woodsmoke, warm against his skin, and watches the play of firelight and shadow against the creamy walls. Erik had covered the windows with heavy drapes to prevent the warmth from leeching out of the room, but Charles fancies he can hear the wild howl of wind outside, snow and sleet lashing down on the earth.

He wheels over to Erik, who is standing at the fire with some sort of pot in his hand. Charles sends his thoughts out in a quiet curl of inquiry.

“Trying to see if I can boil some water for us,” Erik answers in response to Charles’ unspoken question. “For tea.”

“Thank you, Erik. I’ll get us set up on the couch?”

“Please.”

Charles puts down the blankets he had carried with him and grabs a few extra cushions for use as pillows. Erik joins him after a moment, a mug of steaming tea in each hand, and Charles takes his cup with a murmured word of thanks.

“I can’t believe you still have those,” Erik says, nodding at Charles’ socks.

“Of course.” Charles smiles and adds, as boldly and sweetly as he can manage, “After all, you made them for me.”

He’s rewarded with pleasure blooming through Erik’s thoughts even as Erik huffs, feigning exasperation. “You can do better.” Erik reaches out, drawing the blankets across the two of them, taking special care to cover Charles’ legs. “You sure you’re warm enough?”

“Yes, the fire is perfect.” But there’s still concern greying out the edges of Erik’s mind – even after all these years, his guilt festers and lingers. Charles sighs. “Stop worrying, Erik, please.”

“Sorry.” _You know I try not to. You can take care of yourself._

_It’s all ancient history, love._

“Not that ancient,” Erik says aloud, then shakes his head. “Are you going back to sleep?”

“In a bit. All this moving around has left me rather wide awake.” He cups his hands around the tea Erik had made for him, watching the lazy rise of steam and trying to suppress the dark thoughts that had inadvertently been stirred up. It makes no sense to be bothered by something as minor and _benign_ as Erik’s concern, but his insecurities are insidious little things he can never quash entirely. Always, there’s the lingering whispering fear that Erik is only with him out of pity, out of obligation…

It’s nonsense, of course. But still.

“And now you’re worrying,” Erik murmurs, and Charles has no choice but to laugh.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it? What a pair we make.”

“Hm. Come here.”

Obligingly, Charles uses one hand to scoot himself closer to Erik. It’s much warmer when they’re pressed together, and better still is the gentle way Erik cards his fingers through Charles’ wavy hair, his love shining through in every motion. Charles takes another sip of his tea, eyes closing in contentment.

The power is back in the morning, as promised. They share a long, lingering kiss before they get up. Breakfast comprises of _cirrhen_ eggs with toast topped with Erik’s homemade sauce. Charles keeps up a stream of conversation throughout the meal, reading aloud bits of news and gossip to Erik; there’s a show they both follow intermittently, and apparently the last episode is getting absolutely panned by critics.

“You’re trusting the opinion of _critics?_ ”

“An opinion is an opinion, it’s worthwhile to gather a range of thoughts.”

“Some opinions aren’t worth hearing.”

“Do relax, love, this is a cooking show.”

“You weren’t saying that last episode when that boy of yours was disqualified.”

Outside, the sky is a clear, pale blue, so pale that it’s almost white. The snow had stopped falling. After breakfast, they layer on additional clothes and Erik wraps a warm woollen scarf around Charles’ neck. They head out the door together, once more stepping into the glass plains as the brisk winter chill nips at their cheeks.

They’re greeted by a world of snow and ice. The crystalline plains are entirely buried in thick banks of snow, and Erik’s footsteps leave behind deep imprints, blue shadows against white. The fence at the edge of the small property is encased in ice. There’s something ethereal about the sight of the dark wood with all its grooves and whorls surrounded by a layer of glittering ice at least an inch thick. When Charles taps on it, curious, spiderweb cracks form and spread, creating delicate white patterns dusted with silver.

“I’d forgotten how beautiful ice storms can be,” Erik murmurs behind him. Charles has to agree. He spends too much time working to slow down and admire the beauty of nature, they both do.

All the more reason to enjoy this opportunity. The early morning sun dyes the plains in hues of soft rose-gold, the warm colours a startling contrast to the misty blue of the sky. The only other spot of colour comes from the few sparse trees that dot the glass plains; their branches are bowed under the weight of ice which drapes down in a cascade of glittering stalactites. Clusters of berries hang on the boughs, a vivid splash of scarlet in the winter landscape.

They’re utterly alone out here, traveling through a land frozen in time, preserved in snow and ice.

Alone, yet not alone. Erik’s gloved hand rests on top of his. Smiling, Charles clasps their hands together.


End file.
